Now A King, Now Nothing More
by Oblivian03
Summary: Long since rescued, Maedhros is healing. The Noldor are still divided, his brothers wracked with guilt, his cousins overbearing, his mind tearing itself apart more fully than Morgoth had ever achieved, but he was healing and still he was their King. One shot. No slash. !Warnings inside!


**Disclaimer: I do not own any characters, plot or franchise of the Silmarillion or related world that the esteemed Tolkien built.**

 **!WARNINGS! Mentions and discussion of torture.** **Depictions of severe PTSD.** **Discussion of the cost of crossing a great hunk of ice ill prepared. !WARNINGS!**

 **Note: this is set after Maedhros' rescue just before/as he decides to make Fingolfin King. The fic's a bit rough and not sure if the idea entirely works, but ah well. Enjoy!**

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 **NAMES - unless they are speaking, their Sindarin name is used. For those of you who need it, the list of who is who is below.**

 **Sindarin name = Quendi name/s (nickname/s)**

 _ **Maedhros = Nelyafinwë; Maitimo (Russandol, Nelyo)**_

 ** _Maglor = Makalaurë (Káno)_**

 _ **Celegorm = Tyelcormo (Tyelko)**_

 _ **Caranthir = Carnistir (Moryo)**_

 _ **Curufin = Curufinwë (Curvo)**_

 _ **Amrod = Ambarussa (Pitya)**_

 _ **Amras = Ambarussa**_

 ** _Fingon = Findekáno (Finno)_**

 _ **Finrod = Findaráto**_

 _ **Fingolfin = Nolofinwë**_

 _ **Fëanor = Fëanáro**_

 _ **Celebrimbor = Telperinquar**_

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"It is not right."

The words danced about the shadowed air like knives had once danced about his skin. Both carved into him their bloody furrows, in the past and the present, ever adding more scars to his collection.

"It is not right, I tell you!"

"Hush. He is our king."

A laugh. Not a kind one. "And how good a king is he."

The reply, whether damning or defending, was lost to the loud presence suddenly at his side. Tormented as he was, Maedhros could not help the slight twitching of his lips. Ever was Caranthir an unignorable presence, as loud and furious as he was in both voice and silence. The twitching ceased when he realised his brother had come to take him back inside.

Maedhros closed his eyes. How good a king he was, indeed.

Beside him, the younger elf took notice of his change in countenance. "Are you well?"

A question asked too often for his liking. He gave no reply. He was not sure he could give an honest one. Back in Angband, in the clutches of the vilest Vala, honesty ran parallel to pain. Lies too had brought it, had brought wrath far beyond anything he had experienced then, but honesty hurt like the crushing of an only hope. A chance for sympathy, a longing for compassion, a glimmer of hope that it would stop if he simply pleased them - all mere things they saw they could bend and break as well. More painful than that, however, had been the pain of knowing what would be should he honestly answer their queries of him. Which elves had come from Valinor? Why had they come? What were their intentions? Their purpose? How did they intended to succeed? Maedhros would not answer these whenever they had been posed to him, not as a brother, not as a Noldor, not as a king. So he had learned to lie. Yet, the torments brought by lying always hurt worse than those brought by truth. Always with not exceptions.

Still, he had never answered their questions.

Silence had been the reigning tongue once Maedhros had learnt Angband's lessons well. He had still screamed, cried, bitten, cursed and spat, had still fought against corruption with everything he had and when it seemed he had nothing left he had fought against it anyway, but he had not spoken one way or another, lie or truth, to his torturers. They had not liked that, Morgoth and his prize Lieutenant. They had not liked it at all.

But a king could not be silent. Not when his people begged him to be heard.

Those first days, first conscious days or days near enough, after Fingon had rescued him were confusing and agonising all at once. Physically he had been beyond comprehension for so great was the pain, pain they had told him with guilt and sorrow in their eyes that they could not have lessened for fear of the same relieving drugs ceasing his heart. Spiritually he had not dared to explore the ruined remains of his fëa. He still did not.

Mentally, Maedhros had found himself in a strange limbo of pain and fear and near innocent bewilderment. That his beloved cousin, long since abandoned, had rescued him had almost been enough to break his already tenuous grip on reality. That his strong, proud brothers had willfully knelt and openly wept at his side had been disconcerting. That his uncle, his other cousins, even Turgon, had come to add their own soft reassurances to the words that had hung about his ears telling him he was safe, he was free, he had no need to fear anymore. It had been too strange to be true, and yet too strange not to be.

"Brother?"

It was with difficulty that Maedhros focused his straying attention back to Caranthir. The other was looking back at him with ill-veiled concern.

"Come," the younger elf said after a while of uneasy silence. "Let us go back inside so you might rest."

Something flared within the redhead, unbidden but welcome. Too long had he been forced to follow the whims of others. "I would rather stay a while longer. I have been abed too long already."

"Then let us take a walk so you can take in the sights of more than this one spot." Caranthir was not Amrod or Curufin to wheedle compliance from him. Was not Celegorm or Amras to hustle him about. Was not Maglor or Fingon to be so overbearing in their protectiveness, however well-earned that protectiveness might be. Caranthir did none of those things and often Maedhros found himself very grateful for it.

For a moment the redhead drank in his brother's face in lieu of answering. Trapped as he had been in Angband, a place of ugliness and cruelty, Caranthir's ruddy face, freckled like his own, was fairer than Maedhros had grown used to seeing. To the red haired elf his brother's face was as ineffable beauty was to Maglor's songs. And better too, for in Angband there had been those whose faces were fair in the way that a mask wrought by a master hand was fair and beautiful. But Caranthir, while fair as every elf, was not the most beautiful of Fëanor's sons, even after the eldest was rescued. It was perhaps a disservice to his brother to think such, but it was true and for that Maedhros loved him even more.

"Is there something on my face?"

The sharp words startled him and he tensed. "N-no."

Caranthir sighed, his quick temper doused by the reaction. Wordlessly the elf took his brother's only hand and for a moment helplessness overwhelmed the redhead. Maedhros was as effectively bound in that kind grip as he had been in the iron chains of Angband, his muscles too weak to pull away, his other wrist ending in a painful stump still slung across his front. The wounded elf did not bristle in his discomfort, but Caranthir being Caranthir knew anyway and his grip weakened enough for Maedhros to break free from if he wished.

Maedhros smiled weakly. What a pitiful sight he must have made indeed for his volatile younger brother to so swiftly drop the matter and offer his forgiveness.

"Which way do you want to go?" the younger elf asked.

Shrugging, Maedhros looked down at his feet. It was a wonder that he could still walk, he thought. It was a wonder that he was still alive.

"I hear Curvo is working in the forges," Caranthir said. "Perhaps we could visit him?"

"No." Surer this time. Firmer. Maedhros had yet to find the will to visit the forges that spotted the settlement. There were still too many bad memories lurking over such places.

"Alright. How about the stables?"

Maedhros shrugged again. His brother sighed a second time. He was becoming frustrated, it was not hard to tell. They all were becoming more frustrated with each passing day now that he was more himself than he had been, both physically and mentally. All masked it well, his brothers and cousins alike, but at moments of indecision or with no response their patience thinned all the same. The copper haired elf could not blame them. His recovery was slower than anybody would like, save perhaps the ones whose ceaseless ministrations had forced recovery to be necessary. At times he thought he was still _there_. Yet, they were at war or would be soon if they had not declared it officially and there was no time for doubting. Little enough time for healing.

Maedhros was frustrated with himself, but he tried to keep that hidden away deep within him. At times he doubted he succeeded very well. He doubted he succeeded at all with the brother currently beside him, ever harsh but attuned to emotions in the way the rest of the Fëanorians were not.

"If not the forges or the stables, would you like to see if we could manage the lake?" Caranthir asked with surprising patience.

Maedhros bit his lip, thinking. "Perhaps Curvo could join us if he is not so busy? It seems he has taken up permanent residence in the forges."

For once his harsh brother smiled. "I fear he has, or will if no one stops him." He led his older brother to a stack of crates and gestured for him to sit. "Wait here while I fetch him. I'm sure I can drag him away if I tell him you requested it. Besides, our nephew is more than capable of finishing any work he might have already started. He has taken to smithing like, well, like our father did."

With that, Caranthir dashed off, a spring to his step that was not there before. Maedhros waited a short while longer until his footsteps faded entirely before rising slowly to his feet once more. He had wished to be alone in his wanderings that day, free of any well meaning presence and free of the room that had grown to seem like another cell, although a better furnished and aired one than those in Angband. It was why he had gradually made his way to this spot earlier in the morning. It was why he was disobeying his brother now.

There were times in Angband when it seemed he had all but been forgotten that being alone had seemed worse than the tortures he had been put through. Then there was Thangorodrim. Yet, now, with the constant companionship he had been subjected to ever since his rescue, never left by himself for but the breath of a moment, there was nothing Maedhros wanted more than to be alone. Even if alone meant wandering through the Fëanorians' settlement and ignoring the stares his maimed figure brought upon him.

There was an underlying motive to the desire to be alone too. As sick as he had been, for he had been sick in every sense of the word in those first weeks, his kin had sought to keep from him the state of matters with the Noldor. They continued to do so with steadfast and surprisingly unified resolve, only feeding him dribs and drabs here and there when he grew impatient enough to show he too bore the legacy of his father's infamous temper. Whatever the reason for such evasion was, Maedhros did not know. He had thought in particularly dark moments that they perhaps thought him too weak to withstand any harrowing news. The thought aligned too closely to their claims that it was simply because they wanted him to focus on healing.

Likewise frustrating were his constant companions during the walks he had taken about the settlement, once his legs had grown strong enough to do so. They seemed to somehow deter other elves from interacting in all but the most mundane tasks. Once, when it was Fingolfin who had accompanied him when he had still resided in Fingolfin's settlement, he had not seen another elf at all save his uncle's sparse guard. Although, Maedhros suspected that it was more to do with an attempted orc raid he had caught snatches of talk about the following night. That particular walk had been far shorter than most despite his longing to be outside.

Pushing that thought aside to deal with another time - and he would have to deal with it eventually for it stirred up more than a few emotions, doubts and fears inside him - Maedhros glanced about where he walked. It was a wonder to see the progress of the yet young Fëanorian settlement on the southern shore of Lake Mithrim, the more developed land abandoned to Fingolfin's people. Here and there was a roughly built house, a stack of logs or game strung up waiting to be tended to. Plants grew between the slabs of stone that had been laid across the muddier sections of ground and some dwellings had small gardens between them. In the air hung the same taint that hung everywhere in Beleriand, though it was far more distilled than it had been in other places Maedhros had known.

The day itself was pleasant enough, a few clouds to weaken the sun's light but not enough to indicate a brewing storm. Unless their Doom cursed their luck with weather as well, rain would not catch the wounded haired elf unawares.

Still, if the rain was not the thing to blight him in that moment, it was his own horä's limitations instead. Though mostly healed, save his arm and the scars that never would, the elf's muscles were still unused to such an activity and had not the primal thrill of fear to sustain it as it had in Angband. With great humiliation he had relearned how to walk and with great humiliation he now suffered the complaints of his joints and limbs.

Indeed, after a while Maedhros was reduced to mentally cursing himself as he found his aching body being forced to sit from need. A few more dragging steps and the red haired elf found a bench where he could rest his feet. Yet, that he had to accept the seat from a heavily pregnant elleth (a blessing indeed in the Noldor's seemingly blessless life) was a blow to his pride and his feelings of competence. What Lord was he, let alone a king, to be stealing seats from one who needed it more?

 _"Who deserves it more,"_ rang the vile echo of Sauron in his head.

"Are you alright, my Lord?" the elleth asked with a pure concern many seemed to lack.

'My Lord' she had said. Lord, not King.

 _"Were you ever truly a king?" Sauron had asked._

 _"Yes!" He had cried back resolutely. "Yes…" came a more doubtful answer._

"Should I fetch one of your brothers?" that innocent voice continued. "Or the Valiant Lord Findekáno perhaps?"

The thought of forcing her to also run to fetch someone for his sorry self was as repellant as Sauron. "No, thank you. It is fine. I merely need to catch my breath, then I shall be on my way. If I may though, what is your name?"

"Eliril," the elleth answered.

Maedhros smiled. "A lovely name. When is your babe due to come into this world?"

They spoke a little, the conversation weaving between topics of babies and marriage and the first purple blooms of wisteria around her home. He used the time to glean other pieces of information too, showing particular interest in the cousin she had on the other side of the lake and how said cousin was faring. If her words also hinted at lingering and growing discord between two camps, he stored it away to brew on later. It was a pleasant conversation as conversations went, but though Eliril did not stare openly at his scars it seemed that she put too much effort into avoiding them. It was disconcerting. In a similar disconcerting manner, Eliril hovered about ready to lend a hand if needed.

The thought of her doing so once again gnawed at his pride and if Maedhros struggled up too early from his rest for his protesting body, he ignored that fact. He would not take the elleth's seat or time for any longer than was absolutely necessary.

"My Lord, if you need-"

Maedhros smiled as kindly as his scarred face would allow. "I thank you for your concern, but I really must be off again. Things will not see to themselves." And how many things it seemed there were that now demanded his attention. "I must thank you again for the seat and conversation."

"It was my pleasure."

Helping Eliril sit back down, the red haired elf bid her farewell.

This time his walk was less enjoyable than before. His head was fuller now with what he had been told and what he had been told had only stirred up more memories for him. Knives and brands and wandering hands were never pleasant company in whatever form they took.

So it was that the head of Fëanor's stubborn House aimlessly let his feet carry him where they may. Closer to the edge of the Noldor's southern settlement he was drawing, but he paid this no heed either. Not until a brightly coloured tent caught his eyes did he pay attention to much outside his head at all.

" _Findaráto_ …"

An exasperated cry in a voice that Maedhros knew well. Yet, the rest of the words fell back to near whispers and even his Elven hearing could not distinguish word from sound. Curious, the redhead drew nearer to the tent's entrance and quietly peered in.

Both his cousins, Finrod and Fingon, were talking quickly together alongside a handful of other Lords that Maedhros dimly recognised from the courts of Tirion and Fingolfin's own camp. An envoy then, most likely, and most likely arrived earlier that day. No doubt to discuss something with one of his brothers; Maglor had mentioned that he needed to attend a discussion today about some 'minor' matters between the two encampments.

Delight filled Maedhros' heart as he watched his oldest cousin wave his hands about in frustration and likely in response to Finrod's smirk. The sun's afternoon light caught on the gold woven in the elf's dark braids, a magnificent sight to one to whom the same sight had marked an end to long, long torment. If he were to speak up now, to even move a little further inside the tent, than that lovely face, which had seemed a ghost before when misery was dominant, would no doubt rise and greet him with the same smile he had greeted his cousin's awakening with. As if their friendship had never been broken for it had not been, not truly.

Still, Maedhros hesitated. At his back the sun burned and still so strange was this sensation that he turned to face it. The blinding light was familiar as he tried to stare directly at its source, soon resorting squinting his eyes instead as he had done not so long ago for a very long time. The elf grunted, not with any particular emotion or thought. Yet, the sound did what his silent entry had failed to achieve. From the corner of his eye he glimpsed a young elf who was likewise lingering near the entrance of the tent glance at him then at where he looked.

"The sun was a gift from the Valar," the elf said now turning completely away from where he watched the other Lords in their discussion. "A blessing for those of us who crossed the Helcaraxë beneath the dark and pale stars."

There was a barb in his words almost as painful as a Balrog's whip. It hooked the still tender flesh of Maedhros' soul and seemed to tear it anew. He winced and yet the moment had passed in this game of words for him to respond in any manner that did not sound arrogant or weak.

"It must have been...a sight," Maedhros said nonetheless.

"It was. No doubt a better sight than you saw in those same years, but fret not, that is all over now." A sneer masked as condescending pity - a Lord playing his part in caring for the poor wreck Fingolfin's eldest nephew was. "How were you first acquainted with the sun's majesty, I wonder?"

It was not an unexpected question. Would have been wholly expected in the deceptively vicious court of Tirion. Ever did the game of politics follow the Noldor like flies to a carcass. Ever had Maedhros excelled at it and perhaps in Tirion Maedhros would have answered differently. Yet, here and now he no wordsmith Lord, but one whose edges were of broken steel.

"We were acquainted intimately when the sun first rose whilst I hung on Thangorodrim," said the red haired elf. He did not flinch though the other elf did. "For a long while after I cannot say that we were friends."

In his head Maedhros wondered at how detached he sounded despite the air of confidence with which he had spoken. It had seemed so long, that particular torment, though he had been in no state of mind to count the passing time. Now he was afraid to ask how long it had been. How long it had all been, that time spent in Morgoth's foul clutches.

It was then that Fingon spotted him amidst the spluttering of the young elf beside him. Perhaps it was indeed the spluttering and the sharp exclamation the shocked Lord had given that had drawn the valiant elf's attention in the first place, or perhaps it was merely the sense Maedhros' cousin seemed to have about him now to know where he was and the dangers that could assail him.

"Nelyo!" came Fingon's affectionate cry. "You should have spoken so that I knew you were here."

Maedhros did not smile but he did not grimace either. "I did not want to interrupt."

"Nonsense," Fingon said. "I was merely discussing some matters with Findaráto. They are of no importance."

"You mean I am of no importance," Finrod broke in with a smile that told he brooked no offence. "Though it is you that he neglects me for, beloved cousin-mine, so I suppose I must forgive him."

Maedhros felt as though he had been waylaid whilst they discretely brushed something hidden under a rug, but he let the feeling lay. If it was import he could wring it out of them later when his legs ached less from keeping him upright for so long.

"Here, sit," Fingon said as though he had heard the protesting of his cousin's muscles. He took the lone hand and helped Maedhros lower himself onto the single stool in the tent.

The tent had fallen silent save for the fussing of Maedhros' cousins over Maedhros himself. The other elves were openly staring at him, save the young Lord from before who now could not bring himself to meet the Fëanorian's face. If there was something lurking in the elf's own pallid face it was something much akin to fear. The reaction satisfied Maedhros even less than the barbed patronising had.

 _What a king I make._

Fingon was speaking and with effort Maedhros focused his attention upon his words.

"What are you doing here?" the Valiant said. "Not that I am not overjoyed to see you, but I would not have thought to find you so far unaccompanied."

"I wished to take a walk," Maedhros said. "Being no one's prisoner I thought that I might choose to do so in whatever company I wished."

To his credit, Fingon did not blanch - indeed he had been there for the worst of Maedhros' moods before he had relearned how to walk and near every bad mood after, surpassed only by the dedication of Maglor himself - although his eyebrows dipped in displeasure. Finrod, however, _did_ blanch and the next words split into the air were his.

"Why of course!" he cried. "Not at all! You might walk where you wish with no one to hinder you. Never think otherwise while you are here, for there is no need. Of course, there would not be - you are among friends! But enough talk of such things. What sights has your walk allowed you to see this fine day?"

If anyone noticed a certain young Lord shift uncomfortably, though his spirits had clearly rallied as the cousins had talked, not a word was said about it. Maedhros himself swallowed unconsciously as he was given the undivided attention of the others in the tent. All of a sudden the fine scars that lined his face between his freckles seemed all the more painfully obvious.

"I did not see anything of note," he said carefully. "Save elves going about building their lives with as much will as they ever had. It is wonderful to watch."

And it had been, or would be so if he had not been so caught up with the twisted paths that his thoughts were travelling that day. That said, it was not a lie. This was not the first walk he had taken and on those walks he had seen how life went on despite Morgoth, despite the curse and Doom, despite Thangorodrim hanging over them like a scavenger waiting for its meal. How he had learned to envy then, to envy the simplicity of trying to struggle on through hardships brought about by settling in a harsh new land, hardships that could be blamed on those who led them. But how could he envy those whose struggles he had brought in leading off their husbands and sons and fathers to slaughter?

 _"Does it ever bother you, knowing how many deaths are on your hands?" It had been phrased like a general question, a simple inquiry made during a conversation between friends. But the one speaking was not his friend and very soon the pain started again, nonchalant and callous and gleeful in its maliciousness._

Maedhros blinked at Fingon's fair face and steadied his resolve. "Wisteria is coming into bloom and Celegorm tells me the forests are becoming more plentiful now that the cold has faded. They are all curious things after such a time away from anything remotely curious that did not wish to harm me, yet still I am more curious about other things. What were you discussing?"

There were many unspoken facts in Finwë's household and those of his sons, one such being that Finrod could not lie convincingly. Yet, lie he did. "Just how the settlement of our uncle's people was faring."

Fingolfin's people - an even more barbed phrase than blatant references to the Helcaraxë. The answer frustrated Maedhros in ways he could not explain, more than pride having taken a hit. Still, he could work with the lie to milk other answers he wanted from his cousins and the other elves there.

"And how are they faring?" asked the eldest Fëanorian. "I have heard that the forges have been well established and most of the crops that were planted have fared well, although communication between the two camps could stand to improve."

Finrod smiled in relief and Fingon seemed to glow at the interest he was taking, but it was another elf who met Maedhros' words with a reply.

"A lot could stand to improve between the two settlements," the Lord said, a tall elf but with a broader face than most elves had. Maedhros recognised him from the courts of Tirion: it was one of the courtiers who had followed Fingolfin with unswerving loyalty.

"Like what?" the redhead asked.

A sardonic smile masked with kind pity - indistinguishable to almost everyone in the room, an expression that would have been indistinguishable to Maedhros had not Sauron's face wore more convincing lies, lies that his captive have eventually learnt to see through. The redhead fancied that no one could lie to him now. Not _after_. Not the healers who tutted uncertainties about his shoulder fully healing. Not his brothers when they told him that his forgiveness and healing was all they needed to ease their guilt. Not Turgon when he said he had forgiven him. Not Fingon when he rushed to affirm that the scarring did not matter and he looked as lovely as he ever had, if a bit thin around the edges. Even his uncle lied as a politician did, lamenting over his nephews wounds as if they had been earned from bravery and not from some twisted game that his nephew could never have hoped to win.

But Maedhros had survived Angband, if only barely, and he could work with lies. (Another lie, but what was one more? What was one more of anything, be it a knife or poker or a dark hour spent in shadowed chambers?

 _"Do what you will," he had cried, perhaps in the beginning when his strength and courage had not failed, or perhaps near the end when he had naught but some fell thing to sustain him. "What is one more torment added to the lot you have already heaped upon me?"_

 _And Morgoth had laughed and the Silmarils he wore had winked and long had Maedhros regretted his folly that night, and yet long had he reveled in that same folly's fearsome flame. Madness was a thing that breed in droves in Angband. None had ever escaped untouched by it.)_

"We lost our horses, our supplies, our lives and our trust in you on our long trek here," the Lord was saying. "Perhaps two of those things could be fixed. We are unfamiliar with the land and so our farmers fight to grow what food we need. There are houses already built here, but they are no more homely than a cold bed beneath the stars. Many of our people miss their old homes and loved ones. Many more fear what the curse on this land will bring them. Even more still suffer still in their dreams from the terrors of the Ice. These are all great wrongs, you can see. No woman, no child should be asked to suffer them."

"What is being done to right them then?"

The Lord snorted. "What is being done? Nothing! The sons of Fëanor have their father's accursed pride and will do nothing to help us."

"They have offered nothing at all as recompense?" Maedhros asked in disbelief.

"Nothing that we will accept," another elf said in anger, this time a lesser Lord from Tirion although his hardships had lent to his long face what good food and a courtly life could not. "Our loyalty cannot be bought nor our memories erased by cheap gifts."

Maedhros did not so much fall silent as had stillness fully overtake him. Famed Caranthir might have been for his volcanic temper, Celegorm for his hasty one, Maglor for his cutting one, the twins for their sudden and fickle ones, famed might have Curufin been for his remarkable likeness to their father, but famed in this matter Maedhros was not. Rarely had he been truly angered in Valinor and even that had morphed under Angband's knives.

Still, before every tempest there was a lull, not to offer escape - most often it was too late for such things - but to give a deceptive warning to brace oneself against the coming onslaught. There had been a lull before the chaos of Aqualondë had burst forth. There had been a lull before Losgar. There had been a lull before Maedhros' forces had found themselves surrounded and betrayed by the one they were supposed to be betraying.

"But my brothers have offered you gifts," Maedhros said.

"And many would rather spit on those gifts they offered than accept anything that might see us owe them," the long-faced elf spat back. Several of the others nodded with hardness in their eyes, a hardness that could have only been born on the Grinding Ice.

"But if they were gifts, true gifts, than they would not demand favours upon their acceptance." On this point Maedhros would stand until Arda itself ended. There had been many 'gifts' in Angband and always, always they had come at a cost.

There was a derisive laugh from elsewhere in the tent. "You think to play word games with us, Fëanorian. Why not? You are their eldest and have proven to take after your father's own folly."

It was a harsh blow and one that Fingon, not Maedhros, jumped to meet with rabid teeth. "How can you dare to say such a thing? Do you know who you speak of and what he has been through? That-"

A wave of a single hand, the other still chained to a mountain and the arm it was hewn from still slung in a sling, cut the furious tirade off before it could truly begin.

"Let him speak, Findekáno," Maedhros said with a look. His cousin sent him an unhappy one in return, but quietened all the same.

The one who had spoken thus, yet another lesser Lord with hair the colour of chestnuts, met the challenge with a determined look glinting in his eyes. Yet another who had been reborn on the Helcaraxë. "Where you sailed across the sea, we crossed the Helxaraxë in all its unforgiving horror. Your folly and its consequences makes you a fool, but it does not make you one of us who has suffered the true cold."

Maedhros' control was fast slipping away into the turbulence of his mind, but it was not madness that he found at the unravelling. It was something fiercer.

"So you would claim to know hardship better than me?" he asked.

Finrod gasped and made to intervene, but this time it was Fingon who stopped him. A wariness had alighted in his eyes, but also a grim understanding for what had to be done. A flicker of fury too, stored away for later use likely when his eldest cousin was not there.

"What would you know of true hardship?" came that furious voice. "You might have seen the sites of Angband from your nest on that mountain, but you have not walked the Grinding Ice. Do you know of that place you and your brothers and your father cursed us to? King, Fëanáro called himself, but no king was he to us! We who have walked through the snows and the cold that freezes babes in their mothers' arms. We who have been devoured by frigid waters trying to catch fish so that our kin might eat. We who have chosen among ourselves those who would die so there were enough blankets to spare for those who must not. The cold winds are bitter on the Grinding Ice and they have a way of blowing through one's heart to freeze the tears that otherwise might fall in grief. Of all those standing in this tent, you alone have not witness this, you alone have not withstood it, you alone damned us to it, and yet you dare to speak down to us?"

 _What a king I make,_ sang the doubtful loop fixed in Maedhros' head, but it was drowned out by the vicious roar of memory that saw his fëa burn anew. In this burning the red haired elf gave a harsh bark that was more derisive than laughter ought to be, more grounded in the now than they thought he could be.

"You say you have witnessed all the horrors of death, but there are more ways to die than freezing. I have seen elves flayed alive then left to rot in the lonely dark. I have seen elves crushed slowly like berries between two heavy stones. Elves thrown into forges so that their fires might burn all the hotter. Elves drowned in the blood of their own kin. I have seen _newborns_ beaten to death for orcish sport," he spat. "Children cast as slaves to fulfill their every dark desire. Do not mistake me - I who has suffered would never dismiss the suffering of another, not least suffering that I had a hand in causing. Still, you are short-sighted indeed if you think we can allowed our task to be clouded by our suffering. _Never_ forget who the true enemy is for he will never forget you. And never forget who I am," Maedhros said, his voice now colder than the winds that blew across the Helcaraxë. "For I have witnessed these things, I have suffered a great many of them myself, and yet here I stand before you more hale and whole than those other unfortunate souls damned to die in the Pits of Angband."

In that moment not a few elves looked distinctly ill. More than several had paled dramatically and one swayed perilously on his feet. The one with chestnut hair wore the red flush of shame upon his cheeks. There was not an elf in the room who could look Maedhros in the eyes, except, perhaps, the ever-valiant Fingon and his eyes held a great sorrow in them as he gazed at his beloved cousin.

"I would not call your words fair," Finrod finally said, among the kindest of Finwë's line. "For that they might be spoken in truth makes them ugly indeed, but your words _are_ true, cousin-mine. I am glad you acknowledge our losses in crossing the Helcaraxë. It would not do to forget them nor the cause of it. But please, please do not think that any here would forget your suffering either - it too is a crime that must be remembered so that the appropriate reparations can be paid in full."

"Aye." Fingon's earnest anger for his red-haired kin was palpable. "You need not fear. Morgoth will learn that the House of Finwë is not to be slighted or harmed to satisfy his own cruel whims. He will not touch you again, I swear it."

"I-" Maedhros began, but Fingon cut him off.

"We will rend him in two, your brothers and I," the most valiant there said.

"And me too." Finrod's face was unusually hard. It softened again, however, as he took up Maedhros' single hand. "But let us talk no more of such dark things. You are still healing and Maglor alone would tear us apart if we were to exhaust you beyond your limits."

The older elf gave a tight smile. "Fear not, dear cousin. I know my limits well."

The blonde elf laughed a lovely sound. "I doubt it not, but all the same will you not walk with me to some place more open and less plagued by stuffiness than this tent?"

There was little Maedhros could do to refuse Finrod in the face of the other's innocent kindness that made his Elven beauty shine all the more. So, grudgingly, he allowed himself to be led a second time that day to some place he had no interest in going to. Fingon did not follow as he was usually wont to do and somewhere within his turbulent heart the healing elf found pity for the other elves still gathered in the tent. He doubted his cousin would be kind with his words.

"I did not think you were able to walk so far yet," Finrod admitted at his arm after they had walked some distance towards the place that housed Maedhros.

"I am stronger than some might think," the other elf replied.

His companion looked chaitised. "Forgive me. It's just that-"

"I know _._ " Maedhros sighed wearily. "I know, but I was tortured, not made an invalid."

"You are still healing," Finrod replied firmly. That the hand he still held had started to tremble from the exertion of unfamiliar activity was testament to his words. "Why don't we rest a bit? Come. Sit. Look, here's your brother though I must say he does not look overly pleased."

Maedhros looked up and winced as he was ushered to a small bench beneath a weeping tree. It was his third brother who was fast approaching them having caught sight of his wayward charge, a ruddy flush already building across his cheeks.

"Greetings, cousin!" Finrod called. "What has you so flustered today?"

Caranthir gruffly gave his own greetings before taking his eldest brother by the shoulders and looking him over with a critical and irate eye. With Maedhros being seated as he was, the other was taller for once and the redhead felt much like the child of his youth about to be scolded by his mother for some foolish endeavor.

"You should not wander off alone," Caranthir began, never one to disappoint when it came to his temper. "And certainly not without telling anyone where you are going nor by lying about what you intend to do! You are still unwell, Nelyo. You could have fainted or fallen or been ill and we would not have known. You have to be careful lest you injure yourself further."

Maedhros, sheepish as he was, frowned. "I-"

"You could have been lost, brother, and we would not have known until it was too late!" Caranthir continued, anguish falling unbidden into his voice. "This is not Aman. There are dangers here that we could never have conceived of there. The terrain is more perilous. Tyelko says the animals are more vicious. Orcs wander the hills at their leisure, though they show some aversion to the sun. Had you wandered out of camp you could have been taken, brother, and perhaps this time we might not have gotten you back!"

The thought was a sobering one. Maedhros was sure he would never survive another stay at Angband. If he were captured again he would most certainly never walk out alive and free, for Morgoth was the most jealous of the Valar and it likely bit deep into his shriveled, hateful heart that the elf had been stolen from him once already. But the thought of going back, of reliving what he had before and worse in every excruciating detail- He did not feel fear for the horror of such a thought went beyond feeling.

Tears made a solitary trail down his cheeks as he pressed his forehead to his brother's, his eyes sealing themselves closed against the combined weight of memories and grief. Caranthir held him back just as desperately, his own head likely haunted by the ghosts of the day when he had learned that his eldest brother would not be returning from the parlay. Yet, his own ruddy face was dry though his eyes shone with fear.

"I am sorry," Maedhros said hoarsely. "I am sorry, brother. I would never willingly leave you again."

"I doubt you did the first time," Caranthir replied. His hands tightened their grip. "You must promise me that you will not go off by yourself. That you will not wander out of the camp until Káno or Tyelko say you can."

"Do you take me for an idiot?" The words were sudden and harsh. Full of pent-up anger and no small amount of doubt, even now the Lieutenant's barbed words still hooking deep in his flesh: _"Poor, stupid Maitimo. What must all those elves think now they've found themselves in Mandos' Halls? What must they think of their idiot king who led them all to desolation? Do they think you a king at all?" A tender hand stroking along his raw back, coated in salt to make the pain burn all the more. "You deserve it, you know. All of this you deserve. Now beg."_

"No," Caranthir said, perhaps too hasty in his reassurance. "Not at all. But still, you must promise-"

"Why must I do anything you say? Can I not make my own decisions? Am I not of sound enough mind to? Am I not your elder? Am I not your King?"

The last was a loaded question, no doubt one they had all been avoiding. Both his brother and his cousin exhaled in discomfort. How could they answer as the redhead wished them to? Logsar and the Helcaraxë still laid between Fëanor's sons and Fingolfin's people, and Angband still laid between Maedhros and all the strength he had possessed before.

"Come now," Finrod said instead, attempting to soothe ruffled copper feathers and avoiding an answer all at once. He grasped Maedhros' hand in affection. "You know your brother means well and you are hurt-"

" _I know_. I know..." Maedhros repeated, softer now as he pulled away from his cousin. His brow furrowed and lips drooped at the thought, a mild expression twisted into a gruesome grimace by the scars that marred his face. He did not say more, did not want to unless it would rend Morgoth in two.

"But you are healing," Finrod tried, testing the words in the brooding silence that had descended upon them. Finding that they sat nicely upon it instead of sinking, he tried some more. "A point you should take much pride in, because I fear you are healing far more rapidly than the split between our people."

Maedhros simply sighed, flicking his still kneeling brother in the ear to stop a hasty outburst. Still, a single hiss managed to work its way through clenched teeth.

"Losgar."

"And Aqualondë," Finrod said nonchalantly, perhaps too much so. "But in all the confusion of that day who would know where the blame truly laid, if it laid anywhere truly at all? No, Losgar I think was the worse for it followed Aqualondë and made what blood stained those of us who raised a sword seem worthless."

Maedhros stared into the flames of his memory, at a beloved hand drawn back to strike as it never had before. "Father was fey."

It was Caranthir who grasped his hand this time. It was a silent and intimate apology for one who could no longer apologise, for the fact that none of his brothers had been fast enough to stop that one shattering blow before it landed. A silent thanks to whoever it was the ruddy faced elf still believed in that they had been fast enough before more harm had been done.

( _"Please, Nelyo. Leave it," the Ambarussa pleaded as they tugged at their brother's stubborn shoulders. "You will not sway his mind."_

 _"I will not burn those ships!"_

 _"Then stand aside," Makalaurë said. "But do not antagonise our father and King further. It is not your place to question him in this."_

 _"Then whose is it?"_

 _But the question went unanswered as his brothers, having brought him to their father's tent, left him there and walked back the way they had come.)_

"They blame Fëanáro for what happened," came Finrod's suddenly weary voice. "Not a few were angered that your father could not face their judgment when we arrived. So they blame his sons in his place. They blamed you anyway, but they blame you all the more now that he is gone. All of you, from the youngest to the eldest."

"Surely not Nelyo!" Caranthir cried, a darkness beginning to colour his voice as red coloured his face. "They cannot blame Nelyo for Losgar."

"I would not think they could either, not after all that has happened," Finrod agreed, ever one to try to coax peace forth from the jaws of fury itself. "Even if he did wield a torch alongside the rest of you."

"He did not."

Maedhros squirmed in discomfort. Astutely he avoided looking at his cousin's shocked face, tried to avoid hearing the words that were surely to come.

 _"You as good as burnt those ships, Maitimo," came a silky voice that ever relished in his torment._

 _"I did not!" he cried, less sure now than he had been before. "I did not."_

 _"Hmm. No?" Sauron's eyes glinted as he leaned close to his chained charge. "Then why didn't you burn with those ships if you were so keen on stopping them?"_

But the words in Maedhros' memory were not spoken aloud and silence reigned for a moment before it was broken by hopeful disbelief.

"What?"

"He did not," Caranthir repeated. "Of all of us, he alone stood aside at the burning. He alone he remembered our kin on the other side of the sea."

"Oh." Finrod blinked, tried to look Maedhros in the eyes and then turned back to Caranthir when that endeavour proved futile. "Does Findekáno know?"

"I suppose not," Caranthir said, looking down at his hands as a sort of guilt seemed to overtake him. "Definitely not before he went there. Most likely not now, if it is not common knowledge and Nelyo hasn't told him."

"I have not," Maedhros admitted when his cousin turned wide blue eyes on him.

"Why not?" Finrod asked. "Surely you must know the relief that it would give Findekáno, the relief it would give our people to know that they were not forgotten at Losgar even if it was only by one. It could help to mend-"

"There is no need to tell them," the red haired elf cut in. "What is done is done and now we must look to the North and the shadows that lay upon it."

"How can you say that?" cred Finrod then, at Caranthir's glare, moderated his tone to something more gentle. "If you told then perhaps it would change things between the settlements. Certainly it would change the view those who crossed the Grinding Ice hold of you."

"I doubt it. They would hate me anyway," the redhead said with finality. "The split between the camps will not be healed merely because they learn I did not burn the ships. I still did nothing to stop it."

Caranthir frowned. "That's not-"

"The ships still burned," his brother cut in. "That is all that matters to Nolofinwë's people."

 _Why didn't you burn with those ships?_

There were times, even after he had been rescued, perhaps even more now, that Maedhros wished he had.

"Nonsense," Finrod said with more cheer than necessary. "You underestimate, beloved cousin-mine, the ability of those who follow our uncle to forgive and to understand. Besides, who could stay angry at you knowing what you have endured?"

"Those Lords you and Finno were accompanying," Maedhros said wryly.

Finrod spluttered and something in Caranthir gave way to a bout of darkness that was not unlike the vengeful streak a mother bear held towards those who harmed her cubs.

"What is this?" the elf asked.

The two others there exchanged looks in a way that was not dissimilar to the looks exchanged in Tirion when there was a lull before Caranthir's temper exploded. Only now his temper seemed darker, fiercer, more protective in the wake of all that had happened. Finrod swallowed and Maedhros placed his hand on his brother's.

"It is nothing," he said. The younger elf ignored him.

"What is this?" Caranthir asked Finrod again. "Did some bastard insult my brother, my wounded brother?"

"A misunderstanding only," Finrod tried. "It was rectified; Findekáno is still rectifying it."

Caranthir narrowed his eyes. "What was said?"

"Leave it, brother," Maedhros said in earnest.

"What was said, cousin?"

"Carnistir! Leave it!" The order shook the air, though it had not been shouted. It was enough to dam the worst of his younger brother's temper, at least for the time being.

"Fine." Short and clipped, the word made Maedhros wince. Caranthir frowned at him, unhappy. "I think it is time that you returned to your bed. It will be dusk soon and you still need much rest."

His elder brother did not protest, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth when it came to his brothers conceding to his will. Still, the hand that gripped his own single one as he was tugged upright and back towards his house was tighter than usual, leaving Maedhros to suffer in silence the nerves that came from such a position of helplessness. It was only at the doorstep that Caranthir realised himself and sheepishly loosened his grip.

"I see you found him. How was your walk back here?" Curufin asked, raising an eyebrow at the red flush still present on his immediate older brother's cheeks.

Caranthir grunted and finally let go of Maedhros, turning on his heel and striding back out with a short comment about finding their other brothers for dinner tossed over his shoulder.

Curufin's eyebrow did not lower. "That well?" When his eldest brother did not answer him either, the smith changed the topic of conversation. "You were to wait for Moryo I believe was the arrangement you two made when he came to fetch me."

Again Maedhros said nothing and Curufin tutted in displeasure. Instead of spewing forth a tirade like Caranthir had, however, he simply told the older elf that Maglor would be informed and ushered him into his thrice-damned room. Ever was the one named after their father himself a master of his reactions.

In the silence Maedhros was left to his thoughts, a crueller punishment than his brother had intended if he had intended any at all. Laughter danced about his head, unkind and paired with queer looks and sneering faces, not all of them from Elves. Harsher voices, several sultry ones as well, jeered at him in his memory words like 'slave' and 'cur' and 'king'.

The flames were there too, hot – hotter than they had been before. The torturer had done something to them, maybe even the Lieutenant that loved his pain, making their red light burn fiercer so they almost devoured the steel placed in their maw. Yet, even the flames could not pierce the entire darkness that laid over the room as stifling as the heat.

Nelyafinwë swallowed (he had ceased being Maitimo long ago, he had decided, when the new scars they gave him began to cut through the old ones that hadn't faded). Fire never meant anything good. The darkness seemed a curse, but at least in the darkness he was not hurt all the time. In the light of fire there was no way to escape the pain, the mocking.

The elf swallowed again, throat long parched, and the torturer laughed again.

"Nelyo, Nelyo, Nelyo," he called as he laid calloused hands on his shoulders. "Nelyo!"

Finding his wrists inexplicably unchained, Nelyafinwë struck out even as he stumbled back, damning the consequences for the want of simply getting away.

The figure swore and drew back instantly. "Russandol! It is me, Curufinwë, your brother. I mean you no harm, I swear it!"

Strange words for a torturer to say, but then he blinked, and the figure was Curufin once again.

Silence reigned more ferociously in the time that followed, only suffering to be disturbed by the harsh breathing that necessitated life. Maedhros stared at his sibling who stared back at him warily, hands raised in an earnest gesture to calm him.

"Nelyo?" the smith asked tentatively. His dark eyes searched for a sign of recognition.

Shakily Maedhros' left hand (only hand now) pushed back his frizzing hair. "I'm sorry."

Small words in such a big void that seemed to have fallen between them.

"Perhaps you should lay down. You must have tired yourself out today."

His pride a victim of the strange, rushing shock that crashed through him after every bout of hysteria, Maedhros did not object. Still, Curufin refrained from helping him, refrained from touching him at all as though any movement he might make could steal his brother's mind from reality once more. As it was, the redheaded elf's limbs were shaking with more than simple exertion.

It was only when Maglor entered that the heaviness between the two brothers was broken. The frown he wore quickly shifted into something more like concern as he gauged the room's taut air. He made no remark, however, when Curufin subtly shook his head.

"Would you like help undressing?" he asked Maedhros instead.

The other elf said nothing, but shifted into a seated position with his legs swung over the bed's edge. Carefully did Maglor approach to unbind the sling around his brother's neck and carefully did Maedhros hold his maimed arm while he allowed the singer to remove the short robe he had donned in placed of a shirt, the healers still against him lifting his arm any more than necessary given the original state of his shoulder. Quickly then was his arm rebound within its sling. With his feet, Maedhros quickly slipped off the soft shoes he wore and kicked them beneath the bed. Quietly did this occur, a routine process by now. Yet, when Maglor took his only hand too help him to his feet, the wounded elf felt his recovered pride mix with unease in his stomach.

"Enough," the redhead cried, ripping his hand away. "I can do it myself!"

The hurt on Maglor's face only made the feeling of incompetence and frustration burn more fiercely within his chest. He was not an invalid to be aided in every small thing. He was not a child to be jealousy shielded from the world.

"Come now, brother," Curufin chastised him in a way that was not unlike their father once had. "He is only trying to help."

"I do not need his help," Maedhros said.

"There is no shame-"

"I do not need his help," Maedhros said again, sterner this time.

Neither of his brothers answered and, at his insistent gaze, they turned away. Stubbornly the eldest among them stood, slowly removing his pants and kicking them away, then swiftly drawing on his ones for sleeping. The soft thump when he sat back on the bed signalled to the other elves that he was done.

Turning back around, Curufin appraised the injured elf. His jaw, once the envy of many elves, now ruined like every else the Enemy touched, was tight as though his brother was grinding his teeth. Thinking back on the episode Maedhros had fallen into before, the smith gritted his own together. It was going to be a bad night. That much he knew.

The foreboding feeling did not fade as Maglor sat stern-faced beside his brother.

"Moryo told me what you did today," the elf said, his golden voice coloured by disappointment. "That was not wise."

Maedhros' jaw tightened further. "I am no prisoner here. If I want to take a walk I can."

Even Curufin winced at that.

"No one is disputing that. Of course you are free to do so." Maglor inhaled. "But only in the company of others, at least for now. It is for your safety."

"Then perhaps you should lock me up," came the reply, a dark thing that was both angry and hollow. "It would be easier that way – you would not have to worry then about where I go nor who is to accompany me."

"Mait-"

"Nelyafinwë!" Curufin cut in even as Maglor blanched at what had nearly slipped from his lips.

( _"Don't call me that!"_

 _He was getting violent, more violent than was usual when he had been frightened by some thing they all thought mundane but Morgoth had corrupted with a master's skill in their brother's mind. Yet, it was anger and not fear that stood at the forefront. Something else too, wild and not half fey, like a caged animal shrinking back from the cage's bars._

 _"Maitimo-"_

 _"No! Don't!"_

 _Those two words were the most orcish sounds his brother had ever made. A new kind of fear had sprung up in him then and, much to his shame later, it never truly went away._

 _"He is gone," Nelyafinwë raged and sobbed. "Gone and dead. I am not he anymore.")_

"What?" A bestial snarl if one thought about it. Curufin did not.

"There is no need to say such things," he said instead, sternly. His brother looked away.

"Why did you do it?" Maglor asked in the space that was left. "Russandol, please. If you feel restricted then perhaps we can come up with a solution, but you need to speak to me."

But Maedhros was silent as he tended to be regarding the things that haunted him.

Maglor sighed. "At least apologise to Moryo, if you haven't already."

"I have." A small voice now. It seemed the day was catching up to him.

"Oh."

Curufin caught Maglor's look and shrugged. There was not much more they could do or say on the matter if the latter did not wish to push for answers.

There was a bang beyond the room as the front door to the house slammed open. A trio of voices could be heard chatting about what was the best sort of game to stew. Someone was making quite the case for rabbit, though seemed hard pressed to convince the other two. Celegorm and the twins had returned from a hunt.

Curufin closed his eyes and pretended he hadn't seen his oldest brother flinch.

"Hello!" came Amras' cheery voice.

"Hello," Maglor sung back. "How was the hunt?"

"It would have been better had those two not scared half the prey away," Celegorm said from the room's doorway, shaking his hair out of a messy braid. "Still, we caught what was needed between us. How went the day for each of you? You didn't hole yourself up in your forge again, did you, Curvo?"

Something in the smith bristled and made for a biting reply. "I fail to see how the fact that I appreciate the intricacies of the metalwork needed to keep this place running as it should, where you break such things with the recklessness of someone who thinks they appear by magic, is something to be mocked."

"Are you calling me an idiot?"

"I said no such thing."

"Enough, both of you." Maglor rubbed his temples, looking to Maedhros out of habit, but swiftly looking away again when he glimpsed the elf's still brooding face. "Who is cooking dinner tonight?"

"I thought we were reheating what was left from yesterday," Amrod said from over Celegorm's shoulder. "Someone already started the fire."

"Most likely Moryo. Where is he? The last I saw of him he was heading to where our cousins are staying the night. He looked mad."

"When does he not?" Celegorm laughed, flinging himself onto the foot of the bed.

"He better not create any diplomatic incidents," Curufin muttered. That was the last thing they needed.

"Where's Telperinquar? Is he not joining us?" Amras asked as he too moved into the room. "Pitya is heating the stew, which is rabbit by the way."

Celegorm sneered in response. Curufin ignored the pair.

"Telperinquar is staying with another of the smiths for the night," he said. "They got caught up in a discussion about the uses of magic in the creation of jewels and ornaments, and wished to finish it. He wishes to find a way to imbed more common items that can be worn with some form of protection." So he finished, pride evident in his voice.

Amras whistled. "Impressive. I hope he succeeds. Such things would be useful."

"Moryo's here," called his twin to the sound of the door opening once more.

"Ah, Carnistir!" Celegorm called out, heedless to both Maglor glare trying to deter him from stirring up trouble. "Are our good cousins, Findaráto and Findekáno, still alive?"

"What do you take me for?" came the predictable, cutting words. "Of course they are."

By his tone, however, it seemed to Curufin that some others might not be so fortunate for much longer. Judging from what Celegorm said next, it was likely he would be one of the unfortunates.

"To think you would bite the hand that greets you! What has you angrier than a bear with burrs where it sits and pisses?"

"You would be laughing on the other side of your face if you knew," Caranthir snapped back.

"Try me."

"Enough." It was Maedhros who spoke this time and that fact alone silenced the others.

"Sorry," both perpetrators mumbled because it was Maedhros who had spoken, though this seemed to irritate the redhead more.

The conversation turned to other things. The state of the Ambarussa's boots was one such thing, the fact Huan kept slipping into everyone's room but his master's another. Still, words remained mostly light-hearted between the brothers. Even the eldest had a few laughs coaxed from him at Maglor's expense after Curufin recounted the elf's first run in with the rats in Beleriand.

"At least those back home had the decency to let you spot them before they took chunks out of your fingers!" Maglor cried. The shift in the air and within each Fëanorian's heart at the mention of home was noticed by all and similarly ignored.

"Moryo said that the animals here were more vicious," the eldest among them said. "Perhaps you were not aware?"

"Lost in that dreamy head of his?" Celegorm asked, his grin spreading wider at the smile on Maedhros' scarred face. "I doubt he was even after I've told him again and again."

Curufin privately thought that their eldest brother's smile was a poor rendition of a true one, and he hated himself for thinking it.

By now Amras had wandered back to his twin's side, the two ever inseparable even when in disagreement. It was he who called out to the others that dinner was ready to be eaten and soon lest they wanted cold stew. This got Celegorm and Caranthir moving, though Curufin stayed his feet alongside Maglor, both looking to where their eldest of them had taken to laying fully along the bed with the covers drawn up against his bare skin long ago to ward off his brothers' stares.

"Would you like me to fetch you a shirt?" Maglor asked kindly.

"I'm not hungry," came the sullen reply.

"You need to eat, brother," Maglor said wearily. This was not an unfamiliar battle and one Curufin sorely wished they never had to fight.

"I'm not hungry. I don't want to eat and you cannot force me."

Curufin swallowed the bitterness and rage that fought to surge forth from his throat. They could, with as weak as Maedhros still was and crippled as he would forevermore be they could, but they would not. Their brother knew this and at times it helped him to return to them from fits of madness, to anchor himself to reality where other anchors proved less successful. Yet, too did their brother abuse it in his own way, like now, knowing the strange control he had over such matters and taking comfort from wielding it in bouts of frustration that were as petty as they were not. That Morgoth had done this, that the fiend had reduced their brave eldest brother to an angry, bridling, _hurting_ creature-

Alone in his head Curufin cursed the darkness thrice and thrice more. He cursed the Valar who had abandoned them, and he cursed his father, only once but cursed nonetheless for what he had brought them to. Still, if their father was here the issue of getting Maedhros to eat would be mute.

"Why aren't you hungry?" Curufin asked in Fëanor's place, the only other in their House who knew the role of father intimately.

"Because I'm not," Maedhros snapped. "If you want to nag someone, perhaps you should not let your son stay at the residences of others. Leave me be!"

"If you change your mind just call one of us and we will bring you something," Curufin said with the practiced calm of one who had faced many tantrums before, both from younger siblings and their own children.

Maedhros looked away. It seemed that frown lines were becoming too permanently etched into his brother's skin as his time in freedom grew longer.

The smith watched as Maglor laid a careful hand against the red-haired elf's shoulder. Nothing was said, but perhaps nothing needed to be. The two eldest Fëanorians had always been like that since he could remember; the only elves closer that Curufin knew of were the Ambarussa being twins, and that strange, enduring friendship of Maedhros and Fingon.

(How it had stung that their half-cousin had done what they could not. What they had dared not. Yet, how could Curufin hold a grudge when his brother was returned alive, not whole, but alive all the same. Everything else could be fixed.)

The moment passed with nothing much seeming to have been accomplished. Maedhros was still sullen and bridling, Maglor's gaze still three parts pleading and one part sorrow. So it was that the two younger brothers quietly turned to leave.

When Curufin and Maglor entered the dining area and took their place at the table, both noted the eyes of their other brothers darting back the way they had come.

"He said he wasn't hungry," Maglor told them. He failed to keep the concern completely from his voice. "I'll save something nonetheless."

The amiable mood from before faded at that, a grim broodiness stealing over the brothers in its place. In muted moods they ate and few words left their lips as each sought the solitude of their own minds. There was nothing the Enemy would not steal from them, Curufin thought to himself in bitterness, there was nothing that was sacred in Arda marred or wherever else Morgoth's foulness touched.

Only when a sharp laugh bit through the air like a rabid wolf did the stupor amongst the elves break.

Curufin's face turned to stone. In any other house such sound would signal happiness, but not in theirs. Never in theirs.

"I'll go," he said even as Maglor and Celegorm rose. The others looked at him gratefully. Glancing at his brother's door, the smith wished he were more craven than he already was.

Apprehension coiling in his gut, Curufin walked the short distance it was to Maedhros' room. His face was still stone, still a perfect mask of nothing that could be used to pry him open and leave him vulnerable to the world. Yet, some things needed nothing to make him hurt. Beyond the door in front of him was one of them.

Gathering his courage and his pride to fortify it, Curufin opened the door. Softly he entered the room, as though he were a thief with the prize hanging on Thangorodrim in his sights.

"I cannot be King, little brother."

The words greeted him like a slap to the face.

"What makes you think that?" Curufin asked warily.

A small chortle. "One, I am insane." The chortle turned to an angry cry as a single hand gestured to its missing partner. "Two, I am a cripple."

Curufin frowned. "Nonsense. You are not insane and you will learn to use your left hand as well as you ever used your right."

Grey eyes stared up at him for a moment, a strange edge to them that the smith did not like.

"Three, our people hate me," Maedhros said.

Curufin swallowed. Refused to look at the thing that battered against his pride at the thought of that fey night. "You stood aside."

"It was not enough."

"It will be, if they knew," the younger said.

"It was not enough!" Maedhros cried. "The boats still burned and damned them to the Valar or the Grinding Ice. Many died in that crossing, brother, and many more suffer still from it. It was not enough that I simply stood aside and even if it was, I damned so many more to their deaths later on! My own damned foolishness – that I regret the most, the lives lost on that foul day, not the years of anguish I was sentenced to afterwards. To think that I could fool the Lord of Darkness- Ha! If it was enough, then I would not have the echoes of memories making me slave to my own mind. I would not be lost in that space between what is real and what is not. Why am I punished so, if it was enough? Why?"

The elf's voice cracked then, ugly in its torment. Tears had begun to stream down his face like two raging rivers, no wilder than Maedhros' own wide eyes. There was pain in his words and there was pleading too. It was the latter which sat most uncomfortably with Curufin – no brother of his should have to plead, should have to beg, when they were Princes among princes. When the brother that was begging was supposed to be King.

"Why is my mind so torn?" the redhead asked wretchedly. "Why can't I tell what is and isn't like the rest of you?"

Curufin inhaled but his chest ached as though he had not drawn any air in at all. The questions needed an answer; it would be beyond cruel to leave his brother with none. Already Curufin had left him alone once to torment, he would not do so again (his heart quailed at the thought all the same).

How to answer was the delicate part. He was not Maglor to forge gold from words. His skill for crafting was directed towards material things. Had it been something else his brother had asked, he could have replied with certainty. A new hand he could have made from silver and iron and gold, alloying metals together until they formed something unbreakable. Another sword he could forge with excellence none save his own father could hope to surpass. A grand fortress to hide them all in, every last one of their kin, so vast and impenetrable that the Valar themselves could not touch them – that he would have built in a heartbeat. Yet, it was words that Maedhros needed and so it was words that Curufin struggled to find. With a little effort, they came:

"Peace, brother, the disharmony in your mind will fade with time."

Maedhros laughed bitterly and not a little unhinged. "What time? What time have we got? We squandered it all, however much of it there was, while you were sitting here playing the builder of cities and I was the plaything of orcs and other hideous creatures. Morgoth will not sit idly by while we sit idly here. He _will_ attack us or goad us into attacking and watch as we break ourselves upon his walls and iron. We have no time left! We will die on the morrow or the morrow's morrow, or the morrow after that! And who will lead us? Who is King? Let whoever wants the title have it! We will die anyway."

Maedhros laughed again and Curufin cursed wanting desperately to shut his sick brother up. Something about the situation was devouring his already doubtful nerves, doubtful ever since they had first shed blood, since they had watched their impossible father die and learned of their eldest brother's fate. Fëanor had hated showing fear, had hated feeling it and Curufin was his father's son.

Looking at his brother a small twisted part of Curufin was thankful that it had been Maedhros who had been captured and tortured, not him. He hated himself, loathed himself almost as much as Morgoth for thinking such a thing, for feeling such relief about such thoughts, but when he looked at Maedhros' ruined face and then thought of his son's own young one he could not stop himself. He would have broken, in a year or a day fear would have done its job as it had failed to do with his brother.

 _They had been his first coherent words, the first ones not tainted by pain or fear or hallucinations, the first ones that were not some babble about eagles and arrows and Fingon. The first ones not begging for death. Begging. Like he was a mere thrall instead of their High King._

 _"I did not tell." Hoarse. Agony to even hear let alone drag through a ruined throat, but stubbornly there. "I did not tell."_

 _At first they had not realised what he had meant, not even precious and valiant Fingon who had saved him. And when they had it was with silence that they met the words. There was nothing they could say - none of them would have lasted thirty years._

Curufin swallowed the fear he felt and tried to catch Maedhros' eyes. When he failed, he swallowed his pride and shouted for Maglor to come.

"What-"

"He's gone mad!" Curufin cried even as Maglor took in the scene. Behind the singer four other pairs of eyes did as well.

Maglor's mouth set into a thin line. "Here. Let me."

Swiftly did he and the smith exchange spots, the singer gently taking up his ailing brother's face in both hands.

"Nelyo," he cooed in the most golden tones of his voice. "What is wrong, Nelyo?"

Maedhros laughed once more, wild and harsh, his roving eyes darting too and from the face in front of him. Celegorm had moved to the other side of the bed, his hands barely restraining themselves from touching his brother, his eyes wide with concern. At Maglor's behest – a subtle flick of the eyes – he remained silent.

"Russandol," Maglor tried again. "Calm yourself. What is the cause of this, hmm? Will you tell me?"

"No, no, no," their brother said, sounding more like he was singing a nursery rhyme than reply to the question.

"You can tell me, Russandol. It's alright."

"No." Not a song now, but still no answer. Instead it was something wavering on the edge of something else.

Maglor hummed and stroked his brother's face. "It's alright. Just tell me what is wrong. You can do it, I know you can. What is wrong, Maitimo?"

(Even back then, when he first awakened, they had winced at the use of that name. Somehow it had been tainted by more than just scars. Someone's mouth had ruined it – just another thing for them to mourn.)

The redhead's eyes finally fixed themselves upon Maglor's.

" _You_ ," Maedhros snarled.

Curufin shivered. There was nothing orcish in the sound, but there was nothing sane either. Loathing beyond hatred stood in their place atop an undercurrent of something that seemed as strong as a mountain's root.

Maglor, realising his mistake and his brother's shift in moods, immediately removed his hands, dropping them to lay non-threateningly at his sides. "It is me, Makalaurë, brother. Nelyo. My father name is Kánafinwë. Do you remember, Nelyo? Nelyo? I am not who you think I am. I mean you no harm. You are free, Russandol, free. I am Káno. Káno, your brother."

But his reassurances came too late.

"Still you ask me questions!" Maedhros spat. "Have you not learnt anything in all our time together?"

"Nelyo-"

The elf leaned forward in his wild madness, his eyes fell and his voice unfaltering in its hiss. "Drug me, whip me, beat me, burn me, drown me, choke me, use me as your depraved mind will, I will never give the answers you seek!"

So did the air cry that night the unspoken words in all their harsh and dignified splendor: _I am still King yet!_ And so did that cry echo everafter in hollow and burning air, more fell than fey, more Man than Elf - an echo of one who would certainly die, who was already dying slowly, but would bear with an iron will every pain heaped upon their proud backs until at last the inevitable end finally succeeded in tearing them down. Even then the echo would continue to ring: _I am still King yet..._ A sad lament for greatness that once was and never would be again.

It was all the King's brothers could do to not weep at the suffering that their eldest had endured.

"Come back to us, brother," pleaded the golden voice of Maglor, soft and soothing even in its grief. "You are there no longer. Hear me and return."

But Maedhros did not hear and his gaze was as fell as ever as he snarled and spat and roared.

It was Celegorm amidst all the frenzied actions who succeeded in abating that wild mood of the redhead, though by accident. In trying to restrain a flailing arm that had torn itself free from its sling the elf's elbow had clout Maedhros across the face. The effect was immediate and horrifying - so swiftly did the tortured elf cower against the bed that even the face of Curufin, who had the most control of his expressions of all Fëanor's sons, paled dramatically at the implications. Celegorm would have hastily pushed himself away lest he should harm his brother further had not he finally caught the wayward injured limb and was delicately holding it in place.

"Nelyo, Nelyo," Maglor stubbornly cooed. "It's alright, Nelyo. It was an accident. Just an accident, Nelyo. No one meant to hurt you. We will not hurt you. Won't you look at me, Nelyo? There is nothing for you to fear here."

Caranthir too added his voice, though it sounded gruffer than Maglor's golden tones. Amras and Amrod likewise beseeched their eldest brother to calm before they were overtaken by tears and fled the room with Curufin following after them. What comfort the third youngest offered the twins that night he never told, but when the three reappeared they all seemed a little sturdier in the face of everything that had happened.

In that time the eldest four remained in the tent trapped in misery and memory.

"Nelyo," Maglor called and Caranthir alongside him, but not matter how much they pleaded their brother failed to recognise them.

"He will undo all the good work that has been done to set him about healing. Several of his wounds are not yet closed, then there is the matter of his wrist," Celegorm finally said with a grim voice. Still he held Maedhros' handless limb, now doing his best to still the rest of his shaking brother. "We must get him to calm."

"How do you propose achieving that?" Caranthir growled, his cheeks flushed with emotion.

"If I knew, I would tell you!"

"What of those sedatives you used before?" the younger asked. "Milk of the poppy? We could give-"

Celegorm looked away. "We are out."

"How can we be out?"

"The last attack. The healers used it all on the wounded. We have not had time to get some more."

"Then what do you suppose we do?"

" _I don't know_ ," came the answer, almost shouted but not quite lest it should make the situation worse.

 _I don't know_ \- the words that plagued them all.

Maglor ignored them just as he ignored both his brothers, now singing a lullaby softly in the hopes that the child in Maedhros' memories might hear and be assured of his safety:

"There was a bird that sang

On an old overhang

Of how he would dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.

Sweet was his trill and call,

Red were his feathers all,

And how he would dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.

A maiden heard his song

And thought to dance along

Like he would e'er dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.

The maiden asked the bird

To join her at her word

Just as he would dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.

The bird did shake his head

And stayed her feet instead:

'I will only dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.

'And come the golden light,

And come the silver bright,

But e'er will I dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.

But e'er will I dance and sing

At the Mingling, at the Mingling.'"

A hue of gold and silver intertwined together seemed to drift over the air reminiscent of the two faded Trees in Valinor and the mingling of their lights. It was soft in its coming and swiftly stayed the argument that had sprung up between Caranthir and Celegorm. It too seemed to stay the fear in Maedhros, the simple music a healing balm to one who had faced horrors unnumbered that tore innocence as easily as a fox might tear a rabbit.

Softly did Maglor sing and softly did his elder brother sink into repose. Wide eyes watched the elf who sang the entire time it took for Maedhros to drift away, too much like a child's in the state of cautious rapture that shone within them. Softly then did Celegorm lay his brother down atop the bed and gently did Caranthir pull the blankets up to cover him.

None of them spoke once the final note faded from the air, the moment too tranquil in its misery to disturb, the brothers too full of sorrow to lend each other comfort.

"Will he-" Caranthir did not finish, instead gazing upon Maedhros' face as though he were trying to burn every last detail of it into his head.

Maglor sighed, stroking the covers once before making to rise from the bed. He could not speak either for his own golden voice was now choked with guilt and pain and a stark longing for the brother he had once known in Tirion. Softly came his tears as he mourned what had been lost. In the moonlight that shone through a gap in the curtains Maedhros' furrowed brow looked younger than it had any right to be in a place such as Belegarid.

As usual, it was Celegorm who spoke when no others would. "I will stay with him this night. There is no need for all three of us to be tired in the morning."

The fair haired elf looked up at his elder brother as he stowed his own grief carefully away in his heart.

"Go," he said when Maglor hesitated, shifted uncomfortably. "He shall still be here come dawn. I will keep him safe."

"Come, brother," Caranthir murmured as he took the singer turned warrior turned regent king, though ever reluctant was that turning, by the arm. "There is nothing more we can do here."

And how it must have eaten him to say those words, the harshest of the seven sons of Fëanor who would sooner compliment the vain young Lords that had once toddled about Finwë's halls than see any of his brothers hurt. How it ate at them all that they could do nothing, had done nothing whilst their cousin had saved the one who, after their father, was supposed to always save them.

As the others left, Celegorm looked with anguish upon Maedhros' sleeping countenance. Huan slunk into the tent like a scolded pup and rested his head upon his master's lap. It was perhaps this hound who knew best the heart of the elf he followed, knew best the want that gripped the elf's heart in that moment, inarticulate and powerful, sharp and painful.

Clever the House of Fëanor was called, ambitious and prideful and manipulative and clever - masters of everything they put their minds too, minds that always curved along a complicated path. Some strove to create. Some to capture sound and light. Some strove to conquer the twisted game of politics. And now, in the depths of Fingolfin's camp, it was said some strove to betray as well, strove for a kingship they would abandon their own blood to win. Always striving, always thinking, always clever in their thoughts. Their world was one of words and charms and fire.

But Celegorm's mind was simpler. His world was the hunt and the beasts. The physical and feeling. The same world Oromë had shown him as an elfling. His wants were just as simple: good food, a warm bed, to know his brothers were safe and whole and well. In that solemn space that night, the fair haired elf wanted his oldest brother back and nothing more. Not a leader. Not a politician. Not a stand in for their father. Not a husk of a survivor whose scarred countenance stirred guilt in them all. Just his brother whole and well.

So as Maedhros slept, Celegorm wept as though in desperate prayer to those who had long since abandoned his House.

"I love you," he whispered in the darkness as he had all such nights before, but as ever no one heard. Not the Valar or the One. Not the one before him. No one save the dog that loved him that much more who could say naught, do naught but lean against his master and whimper in kind. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

Yet, there was no magic in those words and the scars that criss-crossed Celegorm's brother did not miraculously fade. So he wept.

But the night, for all its sorrow, eventually passed into a hesitant dawn. The sun's light trawled through the gap in the curtains, bathing Maedhros sleeping face like an old friend who had been the elf's sole companion for years. The elf curled in on himself with a grimace but otherwise did not stir. Celegorm, who had not slept at all, contented himself with watching his brother as he dragged his fingers through Huan's thick fur.

When at last Maedhros woke, it was without much event. He said little, but when he did speak it was enough to raise concern and apprehension in the heart of his second brother. Not seconds later the fair haired elf had flown from the room, Maglor's name barely escaping his lips before he had raced out into the Fëanorians' settlement.

Celegorm grit his teeth even as he played the message in his head once more: _"Send for our uncle, ask if he would meet me here_. _Tell him there are things we two must speak of urgently."_

Huan loped beside him, feeling the unease in his master's swift strides. The King had been there once more in the body of Maedhros, this time sane and also with a fire that seemed for a moment hotter than their father's had been. It could not bode well, though, not his brother's words spoken so fiercely, not after such a night.

And as he ran to where the horses were, Celegorm wondered if it was Morgoth who should be more afraid of what had come back from Thangorodrim or if it was them.

* * *

 **Not sure how well I did here. I wanted to try and strike a balance: between elves patronising Maedhros as an invalid/victim and Maedhros struggling against his own limitations, between Maedhros seen as a victim and Maedhros as a perpetrator in his uncle's camp, and between Maedhros as a feared Noldor King and a traumatised survivor of Angband. Also between his kin being overprotective and him still being their elder/king. I was particularly interested in a headcanon I came across one day about Maedhros having to fight to be respected after he was rescued due to being viewed as a cripple and a victim (at least initially). Likewise, I lean towards the idea that he was likely strong enough to never revealed anything of substance regarding the Noldor to Morgoth and his ilk.**

 **I'm also not used to writing Curufin and he didn't click as well as the others in my head, so apologies if his character is out of whack (as goes for any of them).**

 **Please leave a review. I love hearing about what people liked or thought interesting or any comment really (bar rude ones).**


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